


fathoms deep

by papersong



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fluff, Haurchefant Greystone Lives, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, MerMay, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), tagging to be safe this is not a dark/heavy story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersong/pseuds/papersong
Summary: You've heard of Christmas in July. Now, it's Mermay~ In~ December~In which Mermaid!WoL rescues a drowning Prince Aymeric, and gets rescued by Haurchefant.Aymeric x WoL x Haurchefant
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Player Character, Aymeric de Borel/Reader, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Player Character, Haurchefant Greystone/Reader, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/You
Comments: 93
Kudos: 113





	1. two kisses

He is the most beautiful man you have ever seen, and he's dying. Most landwalkers' skin blacken in the icy waters surrounding Ishgard. His face has taken on a bloodless pallor, like fine porcelain. You might mistake him for a marble statue sinking into the water if not for the softness of his skin, the stuttering heartbeat when you press your ear against his chest.

You peel off the man's waterlogged coat and curl your tail around him, sharing your warmth. His head fits neatly into the hollow where your neck meets your shoulders. You take his hand, rubbing temperature back into his fingers. He turns in the darkness, seeking his rescuer. You seal your lips together and he shudders against you, breathing him back to life with the infusion of air and white magic. His fingers curl around your wrist, but your magic won't keep him forever. You hold onto his waist and swim towards the searchlights in the distance, to return the lost prince to his people.

The elezen's long lashes flutter open as he's thrust out from the water. Lucia's familiar voice breaks through the cacophony of sailors shouting the prince's name. Before Aymeric can sink again, gauntlets hook under his arm and he's pulled out of the ocean, gasping freezing air. As Lucia hauls him onto the ship, the prince catches one last glimpse of your face shining in the moonlight. Then, a dark wave crests, and you duck back beneath the fathom depths.

That night, Aymeric dreams of ice water and smooth scales, soft skin and softer lips. When he wakes, the search boat has docked beside Ishgard. Though he should be hurrying back to the castle, he finds himself lingering onshore. The seabreeze against his arms stirs a memory of steady hands and strong magic coaxing him back into wakefulness.

**********

In the darkness after your rescue of the elezen prince, you don't see the fishing nets until they close around you. The rope digs under your scales and into your skin. You cut at it with sharp nails and bared fangs. Several fish escape through the tears you make. But you're hauled bodily out of the water, coming face to face with a young adventurer.

You hiss at him, raising your claws. Before you can strike, the older fisherman behind you raises a fishing spear. He strikes your head with the blunt end. You fall to the deck in a boneless pile.

"Ya see this sea witch?" The fisherman remarks, poking your soft stomach with the tip of his spear, "It's worth a pretty penny. The flesh and blood'ave got healin' properties, an' the scales--"

"I--uh, is it intelligent?" The adventurer interrupts.

"Aye. That it is. Dangerous, too--" The fisherman nods at your claws. The adventurer gulps.

He's not not tempted. The adventurer's young, but not so green as to miss the astounding sums that a mer can fetch in the underworld. But the adventurer also knows that House Fortemps has forbidden the poaching of intelligent creatures from Ishgardian waters. After the fishing boat docks and the mer shows no sign of waking, the young man loads you in a wheelbarrow to report his catch.

**********

"I, uh, found it. In the water. Unconscious." The adventurer stutters.

Haurchefant knows he's lying, of course. Mer don't just fall unconscious in water. The young man probably knocked you out without returning you to the ocean, where your healing magic could take over. But at least he brought you to Camp Dragonhead, instead of the alternative.

Despite his decade of service at the border of the Ishgardian Sea, Haurchefant has never seen a living mer. House Fortemps has forbidden poaching for centuries, but the value of mer flesh always ensured a certain sort of adventurer willing to risk arrest for untold wealth. Haurchefant hopes this young man is not ignorant of your value, but representative of a new generation of law-abiding adventurers. He instructs Corentiaux to offer a handsome reward to ensure it--word spreads, and he's buying more reports in the future. He approves the expense. Then, Haurchefant looks in the wheelbarrow, and stops breathing.

In Ishgard children's tales, the mer were always delicate women and beautiful men. As a child, Haurchefant had always suspected that was a myth. You had to survive in the frigid waters of the Ishgardian sea, after all. But he never expected--

Your scales have gone flat and dull with dryness, but they lay flush against your skin, throwing into sharp relief the corded muscles rippling through your tail. Haurchefant's gaze traces their curve up along the v of your hips, the lines of your stomach, the soft curves of... He grabs a blanket off the nearest chair, throwing it over your bare torso. He's lost as soon as he tucks the fabric over your shoulder, because you're breathing softly in his arms, and Haurchefant suddenly can't find it in himself to let go. He wraps you in the blanket and carries you out of the fort, leaving the adventurer to Corentiaux. The salt water from your body wets his habergeon, but he can't seem to feel the cold.

You're woken by the rocking motions of Haurchefant's footsteps. The chainmail is rough against your cheek, but underneath the unpleasant scent of iron there's an unfamiliar yet comforting smell--pine, soil, and something you cannot name, something rich, warm, and sweet. You turn your face, burrowing deeper into the warmth. He tenses, but then his arms curl tighter around you.

Haurchefant walks to the end of the Dragonhead dock and kneels, lowering you gingerly into the water. Your tail lashes once at the cold, but you remain limp until he submerges you to your neck. Then, the ocean covers the gills on either side of your throat. You can breathe again, like a film of cotton has been lifted from your lungs. The water clears your head. Your eyes snap open to meet his sky blue gaze.

This elezen looks nothing like the prince you rescued. His eyes are open instead of hooded, his hair silver-blue in the morning light. And his nose--it's hooked, like the beak of a parrotfish. What an odd shape.

You want to touch it, so you pull yourself out of the water. Haurchefant's eyes trace the flex of the muscles in your arms, the hollows in your collarbone, the soft angles of your jaw and the generous curves of your lips. He swallows, the knob in his throat bobbing. You reach out for the movement. Your touch is cool against his neck, and then you lift one finger to his nose, tracing its bridge from the indent just below his brows, to the arch, and the tip.

Haurchefant catches your wandering hand. He takes his other glove between his teeth, pulling it off so he can splay his naked fingers against yours. His fingers are long, his skin soft, dry, warm, completely unlike your own. Your hand curls into his. He grasps your fingers, bringing your knuckles to his lips--

Hot. His mouth is so hot you're surprised his lips don't sear a brand into your skin. You remember the taste of the drowning prince, bitter and salty like your ocean. Aymeric's lips were stiff and blue with cold. Haurchefant feels nothing like--his lips are soft and wet and warm against the back of your hand, and suddenly, you want to know how he tastes.

A flick of your tail sets you surging out of the water. The lord's armor rubs rough against your bare chest. He tastes just like he smells: warm, rich, bittersweet. Your tongue chases the sweetness past his lips. His arms close instinctively around your waist, holding you close. Haurchefant laughs softly, breathlessly. He tastes the salt on your tongue. Then, you're gone, slipped away from his arms and back beneath the water.

Mere seconds later, the waves lap clear and innocent at the dock. Your appearance might have been imagined, were it not for the taste of the ocean on his lips and the single translucent scale that falls out of the blanket. Haurchefant absentmindedly polishes the disc with his thumb, dripping seawater and staring at the ocean for Halone knows how long, until Corentiaux comes to collect his wayward lord.


	2. a dream of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Haurchefant-centric. Moving the plot forward.  
> Featuring Urianger the sea witch. His robes ain't that different from Ursula's octopus dress, if you squint~

The Echo strikes several months after you kiss the prince and the lord. Your vision shows a ship that sails through air instead of water. The prince is just as statuesque, but he walks with a limp towards the airship. You--the you in the echo, that is--dash forward, towards an old man at the helm.

This is where you realize something is wrong, because in the echo-vision, you have legs instead of a supple tail. Your fingers are long, fleshy digits instead of webbed claws. You breathe air as easily as water.

Before you can figure out how you came by this memory, an elezen in white armor hurls a spear of light at you. You think you are going to die. Then, your elezen shields you. You remember the habergeon with the forest-colored trim. Then, as soon as you recognize the knight who saved you, his shield breaks, and your rescuer dies.

You are reeling even after you return to yourself, partly because the memory-despair felt like a geyser opening up in your chest, partly because you know--you could have saved the blue-hair elezen, if only you had been a mer.

Your flesh and blood can cure anything short of raising the dead. Knitting that chest wound would require at least a pound of flesh. But you would have bled for him, not just because you owe him your life, not just because he saved you at the cost of his own life, but also because--you cannot seem to forget how brightly he had laughed, his arms around you, holding you close to his heart.

**********

"This is incredibly foolish." Alphinaud declares, crossing his arms. "You don't even know he's going to die this time, yet you'll risk your life to surface?"

Despite the show of displeasure, Alphinaud's tailfin betrays his worry with an anxious twitch. Urianger ignores it, swimming deeper underground until the tunnel opens into a dome as wide and tall as a dozen mer. Every stone in the dome is embedded with bioluminescent growth. Urianger swims to the oldest portion of the structure at its base, where nearly all the phytoplankton have been washed away by the current.

"Thou must needs pay a price--thy voice for a landwalker's limbs." Urianger reads, deciphering the faded text, "And thou wouldst die nevertheless, shouldst thou fail to win the heart of a landwalker in three moons."

So that's how the spell will work. You'll have three days to rescue an elezen, seduce a landwalker, and you'll be mute the whole time. It'll be no easy task, but you've faced worse odds slaying eikons.

“I accept." You agree. Behind you, Alphinaud makes a strangled sound. "So, how's this going to work?"


	3. landfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mermaid!wol meets prince aymeric and immediately tries to strip. lucia is Concerned

You wake on some sort of cushion. It's soft. You're wrapped in something--you don't care what, don't look closer, don't even think about the fact that you're on land now, because you panic, remembering the nets digging into your skin, squeezing the breath from your lungs. You start pushing off your fabric wrappings. Off, get it off--

"What are you doing?" Someone demands, holding your arms down. You're ready to fight her, to shove her off, except the blonde woman looks just as alarmed as you are?

You open your mouth to speak. No words come out. You remember Urianger's trade--your voice for a landwalker's limbs. At least the Echo lets you understand the woman.

Lucia watches you move your mouth with no sound. You make a motion of carving in stone, thinking you can draw to communicate with her, even if you cannot write in her language. Something blue moves at the edge of your vision.

The man you saved puts a block in your lap, along with a stack of thin white sheets, a jar of black liquid, and a metal stick. The stick doesn't look very sharp. You try to carve the thin white sheets, but they're surprisingly resistant?

The prince changes your grip on the metal stick, so it's between your fingers instead of in your fist. He holds your hand, showing you how to dip the stick's tip in the black liquid, and draw it across the white--oh. The black liquid would dissolve in water, but you're no longer in water. Neat.

"Pen." The prince says, pointing to the metal stick. "Paper." He points to the sheets. "Ink." For the dark liquid. "Book," for the leather bound block. Then, he points at the blonde woman who crosses her arms and frowns at you. "Lucia," he says. He points to himself. "Aymeric."

You nod, reaching for the edge of your fabric wrappings again before you remember Lucia's reaction to you trying to free yourself. You gesture her over, drawing a fish wrapped in a net. The lines of your net choke the fish. The fish dies. You draw x's over its eyes and look at Lucia to make sure she understood before you try to pull the fabric over your head again.

"No!" Lucia insists, "The--the dress will not strangle you. It is not appropriate. To walk around--naked--on land. You're not a--fish. Please don't do that. Do you understand me?"

You look towards Aymeric. The prince is looking anywhere but at you, his face pink, his hand covering his mouth as if he's trying not to laugh. He doesn't seem to think you're in danger. And you've--now that you think about it, you've breathed fine so far, despite the uncomfortable--dress? Was that what she called it? You smooth your hands over the fabric and nod at Lucia, breathing deeply again to double check you're okay.

Lucia gives a long-suffering sigh and takes a step back. Aymeric pats her shoulder before pulling his chair up to you. He clasps his hands together and looks up at you through hooded lashes.

"I owe you thanks for saving my life, warrior of the ocean. You wave him off, embarrassed, "I have followed your activities in fascination, never expecting to be saved by you, much less find you on our shores. If there's aught we can do to help you return--"

You bite your lip, because this is wrong. Aymeric's got you wrong. You can't go back, not yet. You have to find the blue-haired elezen who saved you, but you don't even know his name. Even if you did, you couldn't say it out loud. How were you even going to get to him, much less save him?

But you'd gotten lucky. The prince had been in your echo memory when he died. If you just stuck to Aymeric like glue, you'd eventually meet the other man, right?

You draw a stick figure on an open corner of the paper, point to the stick figure, and point to Aymeric.

"Me?" The prince asks. You nod and draw another stick figure. You point to the second stick figure and to yourself. Then, you draw a line connecting stick-figure you to stick-figure Aymeric.

"You want to follow me? May I ask why?"

You draw another stick figure, and then put x's over its eyes. At Aymeric and Lucia's frowns, you try to draw the scene from your echo-memory. There's a stick figure holding a shield, a person behind it, a spear hitting the shield, and a skull, for death.

"Danger?" Lucia guesses, "You want to protect--Prince Aymeric?"

Danger, yes. Aymeric isn't the one who needs protecting. But close enough. You shrug, and nod.

Lucia seems unimpressed by your uncommitted gestures, but she looks to Aymeric for his thoughts.

"The warrior of light saved my life." Aymeric says quietly, "I trust her."

Lucia sighs.

"I do not doubt the warrior's intentions." She agrees reluctantly, "But if your life is threatened, as she says--she must needs prove herself in battle on land, should she wish to enter your guard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: u gonna fight. u gonna fight estinien c:<


	4. the azure dragoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence and WoL (reader) getting hurt in battle

Landwalker bodies are weak. You miss your claws and fangs and tail. You've kept your strength from years fighting the currents, but you're still no good with their weapons. The swords and spears feel too light in your hands, too easy to wave about without the expected water resistance. However, what you lack in coordination, you compensate for with sheer power. Before the Temple Knight trainees get a chance to attack, you've already slammed into their sides and wrenched the weapons from their hands.

You were tossing another set into the steadily growing pile of dented swords and shields when the spiky elezen leapt down, seemingly out of the sky. He was fast, perhaps even faster than you. You grinned, baring your teeth at the first real challenge of the morning.

Spiky wasn't just fast. His speed came with precision. Five moves in, you were sure Spiky wasn't fighting seriously, not yet--he was testing the gaps in your armor, except you wore none. When the Temple Knight armory had handed you chainmail, you put it back. Why would you restrict your movements with heavy metal when you had your skin? But landwalker skin is too soft. Ten moves in, your dress is ruined from Spiky's surgical assault.

You couldn't hold out much longer. Spiky went on the offensive after he'd developed a good understanding of your ability. You're far stronger. He's faster, and more skilled. Your brute strength can't touch him. But he wasn't the only one learning. You'd also figured out that your new body may be soft and awkward, but you still had your healing ability. As Spiky became more aggressive, you'd made riskier and riskier moves, until your dress was more blood than virgin fabric. Your wounds still healed near-instantly under the dress--the crimson patches only made you appear weaker.

"Estinien--"

You wave off the interruption absentmindedly, so focused on the fight, you don't notice Aymeric had spoken. Spiky likewise stalks around you, seeking an opening.

Unlike the young Temple Knights you'd been fighting, Spiky won't hold back from hurting you. But he's not trying to kill you, either. You're not sure why he's interested in fighting you, but you think his interest could give you an edge.

He fights like someone used to dealing with--and dodging--irresistible brute force. If you were in the ocean, you could give Spiky a run for his money, using the water flow to slow his movements and misdirect his jumps. You don't know how to do that on land. Your feet hurt, and you're not coordinated enough to get in any hits, though just one would be enough. You can't beat him in a fair fight. But you can't lose, not if you're going to find the blue-haired elezen who saved you. It'll be a risky move, but you've one last ace up your sleeve in your unique biology.

You rush Estinien, putting on a burst of speed to pursue him around the arena. He gets a few stabs in, but eventually you corner him so he must jump to regain his bearings and recover movement space. You turn to the spiky spec in the sky, trying to look dazed while internally, you brace yourself for the pain.

Spiky stabs. You fall to the ground, pulling his spear from your chest. Aymeric lets out a cry of horror as the blood spreads beneath you. Lucia runs to you, calling for chirurgeons. Estinien remains motionless a fulm away. You hold his weapon, feeling your caudal heart pump blood as your systemic heart recovers. His expression is unreadable behind the beaked mask. When you remain unmoving, he stalks cautiously closer to crouch down beside Lucia. The eye of Nidhogg flashes as she examines the wound rapidly closing over your chest.

Estinien realizes your feint. But it's too late. Your open eyes refocus and you leap, shoving Spiky to the ground. You toss aside his helmet and kneel on his neck, both of you knowing that you could crush his unprotected windpipe.

"How?" Spiky demands from beneath you. When you don't respond, he shoves you off. You try to talk and point at your mouth, showing him how no sounds come out.

"She's mute." Aymeric explains. He takes off his coat, helping you put it on over the ruined dress. You'd reject more fabric wrappings, but it's hard to say no to the prince. He's so gentle. And his coat smells nice, like the expensive scents they ship out from Ul'dah, and--Ooo, his pauldrons--your pauldrons now--are very, very shiny.

"Estinien, this is the Warrior of the Ocean." Aymeric introduces as you sneak fugitive glances at the shiny metal on his coat. He redirects your attention with a hand on the small of your back. "Warrior, Estinien is the Azure Dragoon, Bearer of the Eye of Nidhogg."

Ah, the warriors who fought the great flying landwyrms. No wonder Estinien was so good at evading your powerful attacks. You could learn from his fighting style. But why did Aymeric call him the Azure Dragoon, when his armor was clearly red?

"The Eye roused for her." The Azure Dragoon replies, no longer speaking to you, "But she should not have survived."

Ah. About that. You pull out the notepad Lucia had helped you make with cut-up paper. Using the ink stored in Aymeric's spare birch syrup bottle, you scratch out a stick figure with a fish tail--no, wait. You cross out the fish tail and put in stick-figure legs. Then, you draw two hearts, one on top of your torso, near your throat. You draw a spiky stick figure stabbing the systemic heart. Then, you draw a second auxiliary heart, near the base of your spine.

"You have two hearts." Estinien interprets, "That doesn't explain--"

You reach out and slice your finger open on his spear, showing him how quickly the wound closes. Not as fast as before--your healing ability needs to recover after rebuilding your heart--but still pretty fast.

"And you're swiving indestructible. I see." Estinien's gaze becomes thoughtful before he gathers his long white hair and replaces his helmet. "We'll meet again." He decides before jumping away.

To you, it sounds more like 'we'll fight again.' The unspoken expectation is clear--your mer tricks won't work on Spiky next time. You'll have to practice harder with these unwieldy landwalker limbs.

***

Three chirurgeons arrive at the Congregation to find a pool of blood, but no body. A taciturn blonde Temple Knight dismisses them, but not before a mute woman in the Lord Commander's coat rifles through their bags.

You take all the clean, empty, stoppered glass flasks you find. At the chirurgeons' questioning glances, you draw a series of gil symbols on your notepad, and then gesture to the pool of blood.

The chirurgeons don't get it. You shrug and start scraping the blood into the bottles, remembering Tataru listing the prices that mer blood could fetch in the Limsa Lominsa black market.

***

As you bathe, Lucia brings Aymeric a stack of paperwork.

"Approval for your appointment as Aymeric's personal guard," Lucia explains after you clean up, "Initial here, here, and here." She points to the empty spaces for your name.

Since you've no idea what your name looks like in Ishgardian, you draw fishes on all the signature lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter exists mainly to debut the WoL's (your) healing ability. secondary goal is to introduce Estinien, showing how things have proceeded in a bit of a different order in this plot--Nidhogg has been slain by the time you landfall, for example, hence Spiky's crimson armor.
> 
> gameplay wise, this WoL would probs be a monk, which is kinda an insane class. screw bringing a gun to a knife fight, these ppl bring fists to gun fights. and still win
> 
> oh, and fish/mer properties: many fishes actually do have 2 hearts irl. this story's ideas about mer healing abilities is taken from mythology--mermaids are linked with healing in lore from Zimbabwe mythology to Pirates of the Caribbean
> 
> nxt: short interlude about haurchefant, though he won't be appearing in it himself


	5. an attempted portrait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoL/reader can fight! But can she draw? Nooooooooope.

You doodle in your notebook during Aymeric's meetings, trying to depict the elezen who saved you. You don't have ink the color of his silver-blue hair. But you remember his hairstyle, the parrotfish beak of his nose, the iron cuffs on his ears--

You show the portrait to Aymeric after the conference with House Dzemael. His brows furrow at the sketch.

"This is--pardon me, but who is this?"

You bite your lip, trying to figure out how to communicate with the prince using drawings and gestures. You start by pointing at yourself.

"You?" Aymeric asks. You nod and point at your eyes. "Face?" You shake your head, moving your index finger nearly close enough to poke your own eyeball. "Eyes?" You nod, think better of it, and then frown, making a 'next' gesture with your hands. "Not eyes." Aymeric decides, "But close. Let's--see?" He guesses. "Look?"

You nod eagerly at the last guess. Aymeric consolidates the sentence.

"You. Look. Is that right?" You nod again, pointing to the sketch. "You're--ah, you're looking for--" He pauses, frowns at the sketch, "Someone with a rather prominent nose?" He guesses.

Aymeric's obvious confusion makes you look back at the drawing, and--Oh.

You will never draw like Alphinaud. You didn't think your sketch was that bad, except now that you're seeing it again again--all the right pieces are there. But they don't quite add up. The portrait doesn't look like anyone you'd see walking the earth. Or swimming the oceans, for that matter.

You sigh. No sound accompanies the breath, so you make your expression as dejected as possible to emphasize your disappointment. If only you could borrow Alphinaud's drawing ability. You huff.

Aymeric laughs softly at your dramatic expression. He touches your arm, an absentminded, reassuring gesture. The contact makes you realize how close he's moved, his chest mere ilms from your back as he looks over your shoulder at the drawing. You could feel the warmth of his body in the chilly room--

The prince seems to realize this as you do. He steps back a polite distance. You watch the skin at the tips of his ears turn pink. Weird. Mer skin doesn't do that. You reach out for his pointed ears. Ah! They twitch, the red flush at the tips growing darker.

Aymeric stares at you, frozen except for the involuntary movement of his ears. At his stillness, you draw back, wondering if you have done something wrong. You hear the prince swallow before he clears his throat.

"May I ask why you're looking for--him?" He asks, changing the subject before you can point at his ears with a question in your gaze. At Aymeric's question, you bite your lip, thinking about how to answer before you turn a new page in your sketchbook and draw a stick figure with a fish tail. You point first at the stick-mer, and then at yourself.

"You." Aymeric translates immediately. You crosshatch over the stick-mer, so it looks like it's been caught in a net. "Oh." Aymeric looks worried. He makes a sympathetic noise. "You were trapped."

You touch the back of his hand, gesturing at yourself as if to say you're okay, that you're here now. The prince recovers his smile. But he also follows when you draw away, hovering protectively at your side.

"Mer poaching is strictly forbidden by the laws of The Holy See." Aymeric murmurs, leaning close, "You weren't...?"

You shake your head. Aymeric slowly relaxes, and you continue drawing another stick figure, this one with legs. You point to the new stick figure. You turn back to the portrait. You point at the stick figure and then the elezen portrait before looking at Aymeric.

"That's him." Aymeric interprets, his tone confident. "This new drawing represents the person you were trying--the elezen in your portrait." You nod, happy with how quickly Aymeric understood. The prince smiles fondly at your evident joy as you sketch the stick-elezen carrying the stick-mer, putting you back into the water.

"He saved you." Aymeric quietly narrates, "You're looking for the one who saved you."

You nod and fold up the little sketchbook, tucking pen, ink, and paper carefully into your pocket. Once your hands are freed, the prince takes them, his touch warm, his expression earnest.

"You have my word," Aymeric says, "We will do our utmost to help you find him."

You remember the echo-vision where Aymeric had been present as the other elezen saved you. You want to say he's helping you already just by letting you follow him. You just hope--you have to find the other man in time.

Aymeric follows your gaze to the afternoon sun descending in his window. He hasn't noticed that he's still holding your hands. When he looks back at you, concern in his gaze, you tighten your hold on his fingers. There's so much you wish you could tell the prince, from your echo-visions, to the old man on the airship and the white-armored elezen who threw the light spear, to how you might--oh, who're you kidding? The clock ticks, unstoppable and merciless. Nobody falls in love with anyone in three days. Unless Urianger or Alphinaud manage a miracle, you're going to drop dead the day after tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am still salty that Ariel didn't just solve everything by writing Eric a note.
> 
> unfortunately there's a language barrier here--the echo works for speaking, but WoL can't read or write Ishgardian. if only alphinaud were there.
> 
> unhappy ending to this chapter but nxt: Aymeric proposes. or, rather, Lucia proposes to you on behalf of Aymeric. can u guess why????? uwu


	6. the proposal

"Do you know who threatens the prince?" Lucia asks you that evening, after she and Aymeric have completed their duties for the day. You nod as she replaces a candle by the prince's desk. It has begun to snow. The sun has long since set on the Congregation, most Temple Knights having retired to their homes or the barracks. But from the dishes of wax drippings by Aymeric's desk, you get the sense that long nights are not unusual for the Lord-Commander prince and his second-in-command.

"Do you know what they look like?" Lucia continues the line of questioning. You nod again. The attackers in your echo-vision wore different armor, some cloth robes, some metal plates, but all in the same white-and-blue style. You try to draw the plate armor of the blond who threw the light-spear.

When you show Lucia your drawing, the knight's eyebrows lift into her forehead. She's kind enough not to comment on your drawing skills. She points to the shoulder guards you've drawn on the stick figure.

"Pauldrons?" She asks, pointing to her own shoulders, "As these?"

You remember the white armor being more ornate. You try to add the details on your sketch. But the delicate carvings and ornamental metal turns into rough squiggles beneath your hands

Lucia seems to understand the additions nevertheless, "They must be nobility," The temple knight decides, "or in the employ of the High Houses. No commoner could afford something so elaborate."

"Would you be able to identify them, if you met?" Aymeric asks, tapping on your sketch. You nod once, and keep nodding for emphasis. You remember all their faces, even if you can't draw them. If Aymeric and Lucia could get the nobility in one place, you could pick out the would-be killer.

Lucia shakes her head at your eagerness.

"Warrior of the Ocean she may be; your savior she may be, but she is an outsider. To weigh her word against the High Houses--"

"The High Houses have never been without strife, even when we were united against a common enemy." Aymeric reasons, "Now that Estinien has slain Nidhogg, the tension may well culminate in conflict, which I would rather anticipate than be caught unawares. We will make no accusations in the absence of wrongdoing. The Warrior has saved me once--perhaps she might direct us to new evidence, if we could only assemble the nobility in her presence."

"But how?" Lucia wonders aloud, her expression thoughtful. You watch her and Aymeric stare at each other. The prince and the temple knight have this silent way of communicating. You see them come to a realization at the same time--they both turn to you. You can't read Lucia's expression. When you look at Aymeric, his ears dip almost imperceptibly towards the ground. He flushes and turns away, unable to hold your gaze.

"Will you marry him?" Lucia asks when the prince remains silent.

You tilt your head at her, trying to figure out how they got from 'get the nobility together' to 'will you marry the prince.'

If the echo translated it right, that Ishgardian word, "marriage" was akin to mer forming a life-bond. You knew mer bond for territory or alliances as well as love. The prior didn't make sense--you're a warrior, not a sea-lord or tribal leader. If Aymeric had fallen in love with you, that would solve your dying-in-three-days problem. But the prince couldn't care for you like that when you'd just met. So why--?

The prince stands and walks to you. He gets on one knee. You're stiff with surprise when Aymeric takes your hand gingerly, bringing it to his lips. The kiss is soft and warm against your fingers.

"Pray forgive us for asking this of you." He whispers, the words ticking your skin when he speaks, "If the assailant were Ishgardian nobility, they would attend the festivities on the occasion of my engagement. They would be obligated to meet you, should you be willing to pose as my fiancée--" Aymeric bites his lip. "I understand, should you be unwilling." He adds softly, "I know not your culture, your thoughts on marriage, or whether your heart belongs to another. Should you refuse, we would continue aiding your search for your savior. You would remain by my side as long as you wish to stay. Should you accept, I will make no claims to your person or our relationship beyond the engagement festivities, not unless..."

He trails off, but you understand enough. Of course you'd help them find the man and figure out if he would kill again. If faking a life-bond had a chance to save lives, you'd do it.

As you nod, another thought floats past the back of your mind, that even if the marriage became real, a life-bond with Aymeric wouldn't be unpleasant. The thought is unexpected--You have never doubted that the prince is good and you've learned that he's powerful. But you're still surprised that you can imagine a life with him.

Today, you’ve shadowed the prince as he led the Temple Knights, negotiated compromises between the nobility, and trudged dutifully through paperwork. You'd noticed his genuine passion for his causes, his political acumen, and his curious hesitation on matters of the heart. The last quality is unexpected and endearing, like his affection for sweet tree sap, or the way his pointed ears change color when he's flustered. You find yourself wondering what other little details you would discover, should you live out your lives together. You set the musing aside for the question at hand.

If he were mer, this is where you would exchange scales, and you would display each others' scales as a sign of commitment. You don't know how humans do this 'engagement,' so you mimic Aymeric's pose and get on one knee. You take his hand, kissing the back of his gloves like he had taken your hand. The metal ornaments feel cool against your lips.

You look up at the prince and the knight, hoping that was the right response. Lucia stares at your leg, the dress hitched up to your thigh by your kneeling posture. Her expression is mortified at both the sheer amount of exposed skin and the thought of teaching you manners for the engagement announcement. You don't know what you're doing wrong, however, so you look to Aymeric for guidance.

Aymeric is flushed, his expression so plainly adoring you'd think it a trick of the light. Today, you have seen the prince's guarded smiles and heard his dulcet words. The prince is almost always pleasant, even friendly, but it's the careful pleasantry of the experienced politician that not even Alphinaud has perfected. Before you can look closer, Aymeric ducks his head,

"Thank you, my warrior." He murmurs, his voice a whisper in the night.

With your permission, Aymeric and Lucia make plans to announce the engagement the day after tomorrow. You only retire and part ways outside the congregation once the candle Lucia has replaced is burned to a stub. Lucia heads for the knights' quarters while you and Aymeric turn towards the castle. The snow has turned into a freezing rain.

In the darkness, Aymeric reaches out for you as you're testing your new legs on the slippery ice. You feel the brush of warm skin and soft fabric when he tries to hold your hand. You let him, and he pulls you close, holding on tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nxt: u punch a dragon  
> also, haurchefant returns to the story ayyyy
> 
> edit: actually punching a dragon and haurche is the chapter after next. next chapter is an interlude where Lucia continues to be e x c e l l e n t.


	7. the second day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually i was wrong this chapter is a pre-haurche and dragon-punching interlude that sets up some p l o t for the WoL's second day on land  
> featuring Lucia

On the second day, you spot the airship landing where the battle in your echo-memory took place. The platform is attached to an ominous-looking building, some hybrid between a cathedral and a fortress. With drawings and gestures, you convey to Aymeric that he must never enter the structure without you by his side. The prince agrees to your insistence as you arrive at the Congregation together. Then, Spiky--uh, Estinien--jumps out of the sky. The dragoon nods at you and takes your place beside Aymeric.

Lucia explains that the prince and the Azure Dragoon will leave the city to negotiate a peace with the Dravanians today. Estinien will see to Aymeric's safety, so you can search for the elezen in your drawing.

You consider the plan. If they're going outside the city, the battle on the airship landing won't happen today. You don't know what other dangers Aymeric might encounter during the peace negotiations, but Estinien can fight, and the prince has also armed himself with a tall blue sword today. Your time is better spent finding the elezen who saved you. Your smile your appreciation for their planning, and draw stick-figure Aymeric shaking hands with a dragon to express your best wishes for their negotiations.

"I've arranged an escort to take you around the city on your search," Lucia explains after Aymeric and Estinien leave. You enter the Congregation with her, and she introduces you to an elezen knight with a stack of maps. The young woman shows Lucia the route she intends to take through the city. Lucia has the woman seek your approval. You take the maps.

From the diagrams, you figure that Ishgard is divided into three regions. You don't need to search every part of the city like the young elezen had planned. The castle and cathedrals are in the innermost portion of the city-state, but the man you're looking for can't be from this region, because he brought you to water. You remember a dock, the wood weathered beneath your fingers. The city's heart is landlocked, so he must be based on the Foundation shoreline or one of the outposts outside the city.

You show Lucia and the elezen knight where you're going, and convey that you don't need a guide--your time is limited, but you're faster than most landwalkers. If you run, you can cover all the likely locations before sundown.

Lucia dismisses the knight. You begin stripping yourself of all the bulky layers in her office. You don't feel the cold like elezen do, and fewer items of clothing will free your limbs to run.

Lucia watches warily as you take off your coat and scarf. She has tried to explain the Ishgardian concept of modesty to you, but you have a hard time keeping track of the exact rules. There are so many layers you're supposed to wear. Some have multiple names--Ishgardians seem to have different categories of fabric wrappings?--And you have to put on different clothing for different genders, reasons and occasions. It's all very complicated, so you just watch Lucia for her reaction after removing each item of clothing.

"No."

Lucia stops you when you grab the edge of your dress. You release the fabric and raise your hands in a gesture of surrender. Then, you turn in a circle, gesture at your clothing, and tilt your head at her as if to ask, 'Is this okay?'

"You are not cold?" You shake your head, "I suppose this is--fine. Appropriate. Though you will be walking extensively--One moment, if you please. I have more suitable clothing, and footwear for traveling."

The knight returns with new fabric wrappings. These clothes are not as pretty as the dress fabric. But the 'pants' have two separate tubes for your landwalker limbs, which makes it easier to run. And the boots are higher, tougher, to protect your new, delicate skin. You beam in appreciation at Lucia before you change. This time, she lets you pull the dress over your head, though she looks away before you put on the new clothing for some reason.

After you put on torso cloth wrapping--"This is called a shirt."--Lucia helps you tuck the bottom of the 'shirt' into the 'pants.' Then, she ties a strip of leather around the pants, "Belt." She says. "For keeping your pants in place."

Lucia has you turn in a circle before she's satisfied you're properly dressed. Then, she sends you off with copies of the map, food for the day, a formal letter of introduction, and a deck of notecards she's handwritten with useful Ishgardian phrases like "I am lost," "I am looking for this location on my map," and, finally, if you get really lost--"Please return me to Lucia Junius at the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly."

Lucia shows you how to sling the food pack over your shoulders with the attached leather straps. You tuck the map and the index cards into the pockets of your new 'pants.' Then, you move the notebook, ink, quills, and a bottle into the new pants.

The tiny glass bottle holds a single round pill, the very color your scales had been when you still had your tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wots the pill about hmmm? ovo
> 
> meme idea:  
> happy, oblivious WoL with t-shirt: "Please return to Lucia Junius."  
> long-suffering Lucia with t-shirt: "I am Lucia Junius."
> 
> nxt:  
> haurche and dragon punching is actually in this coming chapter! i have this and the chapter after nxt written, anybdy wanna beta? if yyyyyy plz message/comment me thx


	8. camp dragonhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gore warning for a battle with the wyvern. i dont think its that bad but ive a stupid tolerance for literary gore, so i call out the paragraphs in-text for safety. you can skip them by reading the tldr

You don't find the silver-haired elezen on the Foundation shoreline or the first outpost. You're running from Whitebrim Front to Camp Dragonhead when you spot the caravan, and the wyvern attacking it.

The flying wyrm is smaller than you imagined, but the adventurers protecting the caravan are at a disadvantage from being earthbound. You remember Estinien's jumps and figure you can mimic him. As the wyvern swoops towards the adventurers, you start running. When it dips closest to the ground, you latch onto its neck.

The dragon takes to the air, shrieking at the appearance of a new combatant on its throat. You crawl towards its head, where you will be out of reach from the snapping jaws. From this height, you can see both Whitebrim Front behind you, and the stone structure that must be Camp Dragonhead in the distance. The view gives you an idea.

***GORE WARNING START***GORE WARNING START***GORE WARNING START***GORE WARNING START***GORE WARNING START***

The dragon's skull is too hard for you to punch through. You might have been able to rend its skin with your mer-claws, but your new hands are too soft to do real damage anywhere except the nostrils and the eyes. The eyes are closer, but closed. You latch onto the head and wait until the dragon has to look where it's going. Its eyes open, and you punch through the soft tissue, reaching in as deep as you can.

The dragon shrieks in pain. Its eyelids snap shut. The scales cut into your arms, but you claw your way in deeper to scramble its brain with your hands. The dragon's eyelids loosen. Its furious shaking becomes death throes. The wyvern dies, its wings relaxing just as your lungs begin to strain for air in the high altitude.

***GORE WARNING END***GORE WARNING END***GORE WARNING END***GORE WARNING END***GORE WARNING END***

*****TLDR: By this time, you've killed the wyvern and you're on its body, which has begun falling through the air now that the wyvern's dead.*****

As the body begins to fall, you scramble down to its wings. Your armspan isn't wide enough to grab both wings at once, so you go to the wing that's more intact and pull it wider, moving slowly so you don't start doing accidental backflips from the unexpected aerodynamics. You move so slowly. The dragon keeps falling, faster and faster, until you're screaming, albeit silently, because--holy mother of oceans, you're going to die. You're gonna die on impact! But the open wing gradually catches more air, slowing your descent. The air resistance buys you time to learn the wyvern's aerodynamics. You eventually find a spot on its back, holding on with your legs so you can lean over and adjust each wing, piloting the dead wyvern like a monstrous kite towards the second outpost.

..........

"Wyvern!" The scout shouts from the Dragonhead ramparts, "Rapid north-west approach. Wounded--wounded flight pattern? Projected landing three-fifty fulms out. Over."

At the scout's report, the north-west reserve stirs to action. Chevaliers mount their chocobos, archers string their arrows, and the infantry starts to march.

..........

You thought you were done screaming. Then, the first arrow whizzes past your head. Now you're screaming again, but still silent. The archers can't hear you. Oceans take them! You yell helplessly. Oceans take everything!

You press close to the wyvern's body, shielding your head with your arms, because brain injuries are the hardest to heal. Without your steering, the wyvern's flight path careens wildly. The arrows miss you because of the unpredictable trajectory, but you land hard, the impact knocking you off the dragon.

Oof. That might've cracked a rib. You roll off the body, straightening your torso painfully so the bone heals right. Once breathing stops hurting, you grab a few handfuls of snow and eat it to speed up your recovery.

When your head's clear, you pick yourself up and start walking. You want to distance yourself from the dragon, just in case the soldiers mistake you for one of the Dravanians Aymeric mentioned this morning. As you walk, you check your pockets, making sure the vial with the pill is intact. The glass looks pristine. You jam the cork in harder, in case your landing dislodged it.

The soldiers arrive, chocobos flying over your head. You hold up your hands, palms facing yourself so the elezen see you're not a mage ready to blast them with ice. The squad ignores you, however. The archers run past. You grab the infantry captain before he can run off too, and try to point him back to Camp Dragonhead.

"We appreciate your concern, Miss. Be assured, we are trained for battle with--" No. You shake your head. You're not worried about them. You point back in the direction of the wyvern and draw your hand across your throat. It's dead. You're not worried about their safety, because you killed it already.

The captain takes in your increasingly emphatic gestures, and figures you for a terrified adventurer escaping a dragon attack since you're unarmed, underdressed, and drenched in blood up to one shoulder. He calls over a younger recruit, who murmurs reassurances and points you to the camp chirurgeons.

You give up on explaining--they can figure out the dead wyvern for themselves. It's already afternoon, and you still have two more outposts to search. As you walk to Camp Dragonhead, you tear off the blood-drenched shirtsleeve, grab a handful of snow, and start cleaning your arm. By the time you arrive, your arm looks clean, though you still need to scrape the wyvern out from under your fingernails.

..........

You have a good feeling about Camp Dragonhead. You were mostly unconscious the first time you were on land, but something about this place feels familiar, from the guard who waved you in without demanding your introduction letter, to the imposing stone architecture with the pointy spires, to the massive wooden gates, to the blast of warmth when they open, to--

Oh. It's him.

The blue-haired elezen is behind a desk--you remember that desk, the polished wood--talking animatedly to a group of adventurers who regard him with vaguely alarmed expressions. You're suddenly weak with relief, as if the adrenaline of the wyvern battle has left you all at once, because he's here. Your elezen's alive. You weren't too late, the echo-vision hasn't passed, you can still save him, and he's going to live.

The adventurers leave just as the cold air reaches Haurchefant's desk. The Lord of Camp Dragonhead turns to the door. He wonders if he's gone mad, because--you are in his office, standing on two legs in a thin shirt missing the left sleeve. You stare back at him like you're seeing a ghost, as if he's the surreal one, when you're the mer who grew feet and stepped out from his very dreams.

Haurchefant fumbles through the papers until he touches the translucent scale you dropped when you were still a mer. The smooth enamel feels cool like water beneath his fingers, reassuring him that this isn't a dream. You're here, you're real, and you've returned to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haurche's back ayyyyy
> 
> nxt: you've seen Aymeric flustered by WoL. now its WoL's turn to get flustered by cultural differences ohonhonhonhon


	9. your scale

Is that---? By the oceans. You must have dropped a scale while you were away from the water. Your elezen--he kept it. He took your scale.

The flash of the disc in his hand looks different on land, less supple and reflective than it would be in water. But it is--was?--yours. You would recognize it anywhere, and there's no doubt in your mind that he took your scale.

The elezen can't know what that means, of course. He's not mer. You know that. But you can't help your neck growing hot, because--

He took your scale.

It's like how Lucia reacts when you try to take off your dress, or how Aymeric flushes when you touch him. Some cultural norms get so deeply ingrained that you can't help how you respond, regardless of whether the gesture was intentional. When Aymeric proposed, you instinctively wanted to give him a scale because that was how mer displayed commitment to each other. You give someone your scale, or--

No one would admit to taking their partner's scale, of course, not in public, because--the implications. Mer only replace one scale every five to seven moons. No one could know which scale you'd lose, unless they were intimately familiar with your body. For a mer your age, a lover might run curious fingers across the length of your tail, probing each scale, exploring every ilm from the edge of your fins, to the curve of your hips, to everything in between--

Haurchefant stands abruptly, his chair screeching as it scrapes across the floor. He opens his arms wide in welcome.

"Greetings, beautiful--"

And he stops, because you are mer, but you don't look it right now, and the room is filled with adventurers. You might be coming to him undercover, given your current appearance and your last unpleasant experience on land. While Haurchefant likes to think House Fortemps employs law-abiding individuals like the young man who first brought you to him, he won't bet your safety or your privacy on that hope. So, he takes in your tattered outfit, the torn sleeve, the wet patches, the--is that blood?--brown smudges, and he pivots.

Haurchefant steps away from his desk, tucking the scale into his habergeon. The gesture is absentminded, as if he's developed the habit of keeping your scale with him. Before you can overheat at the thought, Haurchefant takes you by the shoulders.

"My friend, you must be freezing," He declares, his voice carrying through the hall. "You might not be from these parts, but you must know the unforgiving nature of our storms. We must find you warmer garb. Come--" Behind him, Corentiaux groans audibly. "To my chambers!" Before you can protest, Haurchefant has steered you out of the main hall amidst a steady stream of: "What beautiful muscles," "Your glistening sweat," and "Such wonderfully firm deltoids!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horny-on-main and respected-leader type characters are each a-dime-a-dozen, but you rarely see these tropes combined. haurchefant walks a thin line between staying true to his (admittedly eccentric) personality and being the respectful, trustworthy, admired leader of a military outpost. he deserves credit for the exceptional emotional intelligence it takes to maintain such uncompromising individualism.
> 
> nxt: you complete the first part of your mission, saving haurchefant. one down, two to go~


	10. the silver fuller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the spirit of mermay in december we are turning up the thermostat ohonhonhonhon
> 
> warning for self harm. As always, the text the warning applies to is called out and followed by a tldr so you can skip it and continue to follow the story

The stone walls of Haurchefant's chambers are draped in the red banner of the Fortemps unicorn. Otherwise, his bedroom's relatively bare, indistinguishable from the soldiers' dorms except for its size and the single four-poster bed in the center. As Haurchefant rifles through the wardrobe against one wall, he changes tone, his voice softening now that you're speaking in private.

"Welcome back, my dear. Full glad I am that you've returned despite the abysmal Ishgardian hospitality you received--but perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Can you understand me?" He emerges from the wardrobe, his arms full with a stack of folded clothes. You nod, but also point at your mouth.

I can't talk. You try to say, your silence demonstrating that fact. I can understand you, but I can't--

"You cannot speak?" Haurchefant guesses, "And was this ever the case?" You shake your head, "No? Then, how--" He stops, realizing 'how' isn't a yes-or-no question. "Did this happen through the course of nature? Injury? Magic?" You nod at the last suggestion. "I see. Is there any way--might the magic be dispelled?" You nod. "Can I help?"

You stop nodding.

According to Urianger--Yes, the elezen can help. He's a landwalker. If he could fall in love with you by tomorrow, that would solve all your problems. But people don't fall in love with you just because you ask, and you don't want to trouble the elezen by asking for something he isn't ready to give.

Neither will you lie to the man who saved you, so instead of answering 'yes' or 'no,' you shrug and change the subject by point to the pile of clothes in his arms. You shake your head 'no,' and wave your hands from side to side for emphasis. No extra fabric wrappings, please.

"No clothes? While I appreciate the show--" he gestures to his left bicep, as your corresponding arm is exposed by the ripped sleeve, "And assumed you were not cold, given mer physiology. But those bloodstains--and you are dripping--"

You look down your shirt with its new brown smudges and wet patches. Right. Tearing off your sleeve didn't get all of the blood, apparently. Or maybe that was dirt from your tumble in the snow, which has since melted into wet patches in your clothes.

"Please, my dear. Is there no way I could convince you to accept these?" Haurchefant holds up a maroon shirt and light brown pants. The tall elezen pouts like a kicked chocobo when you continue shaking your head. Your resistance doesn't last. You gesture for Haurchefant to hand over the clothes.

It's like Lucia insisting on modesty. You don't understand the Ishgardians' etiquette, but you can tell they care about you, and you'll change your fabric wrappings if it makes them happy.

Haurchefant beams when you accept the outfit from his hands. The shirt--it feels nice in your hands. The fabric is especially soft, the pliability of quality material worn smooth over many uses. You're charmed by the fuzzy wool despite your usual distaste for clothes. Haurchefant smiles at you hugging the fabric close to your chest.

"We do not have adventuring gear in your size, or I would equip you with more durable garb." He says, "I do, however, have a few civilian pieces from when I was first stationed at Camp Dragonhead as a youth. I'm glad they seem to be to your liking."

You hold up the maroon shirt with the unicorn embroidered on the breast and nod, watching him in your peripheral vision. What were the modesty rules for torso wrappings again? You're sure Lucia indicated you must wear not just one, but two layers of fabric on your chest. However, the squatting elezen in Haurchefant's office were bare-chested. Did Camp Dragonhead have different modesty rules?

"Is something wrong?" Haurchefant asks, concerned by your hesitation, "I have other shirts, if this one is not to your preference. Would you like a different fabric? Sleeve-length? Color?"

The elezen begins to unload more of his closet. You shake your head: no, this shirt is very soft and you don't need another one. But he's not looking at you. Instead of getting his attention and miming not needing a new shirt, you figure it would be easier to show him. You pull the ruined shirt over your head. If you tried to take off anything you shouldn't, Haurchefant would stop you, right? As Lucia had?

Haurchefant turns when you poke him, holding out the ruined shirt so you can pull his shirt on. He looks at the shirt, at you, and then he keeps looking at you. Do you have something--you suck in your stomach to look, the muscles of your abdomen rippling with the motion. Nope, your stomach looks fine, like any normal landwalker stomach.

You tilt your head in a question to ask what's wrong. But Haurchefant isn't looking at your face. You take his head in your hands and make him look at you. When his eyes meet yours, you think they've changed color, gotten darker, but it's just his pupils. They're so wide. He blinks frost-colored lashes, but his face is hot beneath your fingertips, his pulse racing beneath your palm. His gaze traces over your features, heavy like a touch. He lingers on your lips.

You remember, suddenly, the first time you met, the bittersweet taste of him, so unlike anything you'd ever had. You lick your lips unconsciously at the thought.

At the motion, Haurchefant groans low in his throat. You feel the sound move through your chest. You're not quite pressed together, but you're close enough to feel the displacement of air, every breath he takes, the coolness of his mail armor, and the heat of his skin.

"Halone have mercy," Haurchefant rasps, his voice hoarse, the pitch deeper than usual. He's breathing hard. The rumble of his voice and the hot breaths against your neck prompt this strange answering warmth. It prickles low in your stomach, and--

Oh! Oh-- Oh. You recognize your own arousal first. Then, you put two-and-two together between the elezen's speeding heart rate, deeper breathing, and dilated pupils.

Haurchefant wants you. And your new body wants him back.

You drop your hands. You're reeling back at the realization, because--You're mer. He's elezen. You can't--How would that even work? Elezen don't have tails. But then again, you don't have a tail anymore, and landwalkers have to--

Nope, nope, nope. You shove that train of thought off its rails by turning your back to Haurchefant. You focus on getting dressed to distract yourself from how you reacted to him, even as a voice in the back of your mind starts screaming, partly in panic, partly because--what would have happened between you if you hadn't moved? If you had stayed? Would he have--

Nevermind that, now. The shirt goes on first, like Lucia had shown you. Then, the pants. You tuck the shirt in and fumble with the belt.

As you dress, Haurchefant stands frozen on the other side of the room. A part of him howls at the loss of your touch. He doesn't know where it came from--he has found you attractive from the first time you met, and admired your deeds as the Warrior of the Ocean long before that. But he's drawn to you by a connection stronger than attraction or admiration, which prompted his sudden joy at your return, and this new but unshakable conviction that he should be at your side.

Instead of following the latter instinct, Haurchefant keeps himself still, acutely aware of something developing between you despite your recent meeting, your cultural differences, and your magically-induced silence. The bond feels as delicate as it is precious, and he doesn't want it to break before it can grow, so Haurchefant steps back and turns away despite the effort it takes to tear his gaze from your body.

When you look back at him, your elezen has turned his back to you. Did you do something wrong? You reach out to touch his arm and get his attention, but think better of it at the last second, your neck heating up when you recall his reaction to your touch. You don't want to start something you don't know how to finish, so you stay where you are and knock against the wood of his bedpost.

Haurchefant turns at the sound. From his spot across the room, he takes in your worried smile, how you're making yourself look smaller. He shuts down the impulse to cross the room, hold you, and murmur reassurances. He doesn't know if you want to be touched, so he tries to act normal, as if you were just another adventurer.

"I am--fine, my--friend. I thank you for your concern." He has to acknowledge how he responded to you, however. "You are--" inimitable. unforgettable. devastating. But he doesn't want to scare you off by coming on too strong too fast, so Haurchefant swallows the words, summoning his usual enthusiasm for a well-trained body. "beautiful. Brilliant. Your form, your muscles--splendid!"

And--he's gesticulating wildly again. You relax at the familiarity of his overanimated antics, though you suspect it's partly an act for your benefit. Haurchefant is trying to show you he's fine, and not put off by his attraction to you or your reaction to him. So you try and do the same, edging closer until you touch his hand. You remember how reassuring Aymeric had been when he held your hand, your first night on land, and you watch Haurchefant carefully for his reaction.

The elezen beams at you with familiar warmth. Then, his eyelids lower, his blue eyes becoming hooded. You bite your lip at the sudden come-hither look, a gentle reminder that Haurchefant wants you still, should you choose to accept next time.

The sides of your neck grow hot where your gills would be. Perhaps you are--curious--as to how landwalker bodies work. If you survive, you wouldn't mind learning from him, you think. Then, Haurchefant reaches into his habergeon and takes out your scale.

"Forgive me, my dear." He apologizes, "You dropped this when you came on land. I kept it in your absence, and would return it to its rightful owner before I inquire as to what brings you here--"

The emotions that play across your face give him pause. Your soft blush is replaced by something sad, almost disappointed, when he offers your scale. Before he can ask, you school your face into a neutral expression and take the scale.

The elezen wouldn't know he's rejected you in the mer custom. Everything he's done suggests he wouldn't have returned your scale if he knew what the gesture symbolized. Besides, you reason, you've only met him twice. You've no reason to feel so attached already. He seems--kind, thoughtful, splendid--But you might die the day after tomorrow. Before you even think about pursuing his affections, you have a mission to complete.

You retrieve your belongings from the pockets of your dirtied pants, replacing everything on your person except the vial with the round pill, which you put in Haurchefant's hand. On second thought, you also give the scale back, folding his hand closed over it and the vial. Haurchefant doesn't know what it means, but he should know mer scales are prized as armor and jewelry, given their durability and iridescent appearance. Besides, if he finds out the gift's meaning--well, he is so forward that it's only fair that you flirt back a little.

Haurchefant tucks the scale carefully into his breast pocket before examining the glass vial curiously. He pulls the stopper off the glass bottle. The room fills with the scent of iron

You'd lost a lot of blood after the duel with Estinien, but that blood had to be filtered clean. A pill to repair a mortal wound demanded additional, colossal sacrifice.

SELF-HARM WARNING START***SELF-HARM WARNING START***SELF-HARM WARNING START***SELF-HARM WARNING START***SELF-HARM WARNING START

Your arms still throb with the memory of how many times you opened them after Aymeric retired last night. Alphinaud would have a fit if he knew what you did, but you're not taking chances. Even if you fail to capture the killer and die tomorrow, in this pill, Haurchefant will have what he needs to survive the battle on the airship landing.

SELF-HARM WARNING END***SELF-HARM WARNING END***SELF-HARM WARNING END***SELF-HARM WARNING END***SELF-HARM WARNING END

TLDR: As previously established, mer flesh and blood is a healing reagent. WoL hurt herself for the materials to create a pill that will enable Haurchefant to survive the battle on the airship landing, even if she should die before the battle occurs as a result of Urianger's curse.

"You--This--" Your gesture seems to have made the talkative elezen speechless. Haurchefant shakes his head in disbelief. Then, he gets on one knee.

The pose reminds you of Aymeric proposing marriage. Haurchefant also takes both your hands, holding them as if they are precious, as if you are someone to be cherished and protected instead of a living weapon. And you realize that's why you're here: because he saved you, and you owe him. Because you are the Warrior of the Ocean, and it is your duty to chase the echo-visions. But also because there is something between you beyond gratitude and duty, attraction and admiration. There is a vague memory of gentle hands, holding you like he won't let go; startled eyes, staring as if you hung the stars; strong arms, cradling you close to his heart.

Haurchefant re-corks the vial and puts it back in your hands, folding your fingers over the glass as you had with his.

"My dear, I could not possibly accept this." He says, and you want to scream, because all the words you cannot say have filled your throat until you're choking.

You shake your head hard, open one of his larger hands, and put the bottle back. Haurchefant returns the pill again. You go back and forth several rounds until he suddenly pulls you into his lap and starts wiping away the tears you hadn't realized were falling.

No one can tell when you cry in the ocean. G'raha had this theory that tear ducts are an evolutionary vestige from millenia ago, when your ancestors were landwalkers. So you're startled by the distress in Haurchefant's voice.

"My dear, please don't cry. I did not want to take something so precious, so dearly begotten from you. But I had not realized--if my accepting is so important to you, then it is done. But you must promise me--never, ever, ever--never again. Do not harm yourself, not for my sake, nor for anyone else." He noses the crown of your head gently, "You are too dear--" he whispers into your hair. You shake with sobs, because the afternoon sun has dipped into the lone window of his room. After today, you've only one more day, and you are not sure if that is a promise you will be able to keep.

At your teary, persistent, and mimed insistence, Haurchefant tucks the pill into his pocket, promising to keep it on his person at all times. With his promise, your mission on land is complete. Your crying becomes partly tears of relief, because the man who saved you will live. You also cry because you want to live, too.

You think you might love Haurchefant, or Aymeric, or Lucia, or--actually, Estinien might be a little too spiky--and you think they might love you back, if you only had time. But you don't. You've barely more than one day to find Haurchefant's would-be killer, stop him, and get someone to love you. You can't tell anyone this--you've tried. It's too complicated and strange to explain via miming and doodles. You don't have words anymore--you can't even tell Haurchefant why you're crying, much less everything else, so he's painfully careful when he wraps himself around you, sitting cross legged with you in his lap so he can hold you with both arms and legs. He moves slowly, as if afraid to frighten you.

Instead of shrinking away, you burrow into his arms and scream until your throat feels raw. There's still no sound. But you're worn with exhaustion and relief, now that you've found him. Haurchefant runs long fingers through your hair, his chest warm and solid, his heartbeat steady beneath your hands. You nestle into the circle of his arms and feel safe, if only for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im curious to ppls thoughts here as this ch is probs one of the emotional cores of the story. how is the pacing and how was moving through all the different feels?
> 
> nxt: alphinaud!


	11. oceanside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alphinaud Ruins Everything.  
> except he doesn't, he actually fixes a lot of things~ yay for overachieving teenagers!

"Would you--would you like to go to the water?" Haurchefant asks after your breathing steadies. You nod into the curve where his shoulders meet his throat. He stands with you in his arms, startled by how much lighter you feel without your tail.

As you return to the Dragonhead Docks, you wrap your arms around Haurchefant's neck and pretend that this is just like the first time, that you're still a real mer, that you can go home as soon as you leap back into the water. Haurchefant sits and holds you on the edge of the dock until his legs go numb. Then, he changes position, pulling you into the crook of his arm and resting his head on yours. You close your eyes, listening to his heartbeat until you hear a splash and a familiar voice say, in mer--

"He's the one you're looking for?"

You don't see white hair poking out from the water, but you know it's Alphinaud from the skepticism in his tone. You spring to your feet, Haurchefant stirring sleepily as you search for the other mer. 

Since you can't shout for Alphinaud to come out, you stomp on the dock until he emerges, wincing at the vibration. You pull out your notebook and start scrawling in mer.

Yes, and I've made sure he won't die. Tomorrow, I'll find his attackers. How's Urianger's research?

"He's not certain he will finish in time." Alphinaud replies, frowning at Haurchefant. Alphinaud's expression becomes thoughtful. He swims up to the elezen, rises from the water, and offers his hand.

"Alphinaud Leveilleur, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, and Founder of the Crystal Braves." Alphinaud introduces himself in Common.

Oh, good oceans. Oh, no, you think as your elezen accepts the handshake. 

"Haurchefant Greystone." He says, and you store his name carefully in the back of your mind while the rest of your thoughts panic. 

Of course Alphinaud speaks Common, no doubt the product of an excellent diplomatic education by Louisoix. That must be why the Scion lingers by the sea shore when normally he'd be deep in the ocean, out of reach from landwalkers and fishermen. You should be grateful that Alphinaud is putting himself at such risk in hopes of helping you. Yet you can't help but worry. He's so young--you don't want to risk his safety, or his demanding something ridiculous, like--

"Lord Greystone, would you kindly fall in love with the Warrior of the Ocean?" Alphinaud requests.

"I beg your pardon?"

Haurchefant heard the teenaged mer's accented Common. But had he heard correctly? If he isn't mistaken, Alphinaud had asked--

Alphinaud huffs impatiently, scans the shore for any sign of other landwalkers, and pushes himself out of the water, straining with skinny arms before you help him onto the dock. He finds a seat between you and Haurchefant, straightens his tail and his posture, and finally describes the course of your journey, from your echo-vision of Haurchefant's death, to the curse that gave you landwalker limbs, to the solution: a landwalker who will give you their heart.

Before Alphinaud delves into Urianger's research of the curse, Haurchefant interrupts.

"Pardon me, but do you mean to imply--" He looks at you, looks away, blushes, "How would you know I am not in love with the Warrior of the Ocean already?"

You stare. Alphinaud sputters.

"You've known her for--a day? Less than that! You cannot possibly--"

"I know that she left her home, risked her life, and offered an unimaginable sacrifice for me, a virtual stranger." You shake your head, because Haurchefant isn't--he saved you! But before you can start scribbling in your notepad, Haurchefant reaches over Alphinaud's lap to take your hand. "Please, my dear. If I may finish?" 

You nod after some hesitation. Haurchefant smiles at you. Alphinaud wiggles uncomfortably, already regretting his seat between the Warrior of Light and the smitten landwalker. 

"That is not to mention your heroism, for tales of your deeds have spread even to Ishgard, or your incomparable beauty--" Haurchefant glances at Alphinaud, coughs, and doesn't continue that line of thought, to your visible relief. "My dear, I cannot imagine you would be difficult to love--quite the opposite, in fact. If you want it, my heart is yours. How fortunate I am, that your hand has not been spoken for already--"

You blink, look at Haurchefant, look away, and start trying to explain. Haurchefant and Alphinaud take in your reaction, stare at each other, and then turn back to you scribbling.

"Who proposed to you?" They demand simultaneously, except Alphinaud speaks with shock and Haurchefant, with dismay. Alphinaud peers over your shoulder at your notepad. Haurchefant implores that he translate. 

Aymeric de Borel, Alphinaud reads. The Prince. You write for Alphinaud's benefit. I can explain, you continue at Haurchefant's cry of distress. He said all the nobility would attend his engagement ceremony. As his fiancée, I could spot your assailant before he could strike.

"Do you mean--you are not absolutely, positively, hopelessly head-over-heels for our prince? The most eligible bachelor in Ishgard, if not all Eorzea? The only man who might match your--" He gestures at you, as if your beauty is self-explanatory, and you feel terribly flattered to be compared with the prince, but no, Haurchefant is correct. You shake your head, point at yourself, the castle, and then the descending sun. You hold up one finger.

I've known him one day. Alphinaud translates, reading your lips. 

Haurchefant's crestfallen expression falls away, his ears perking up in excitement. "Is that so? Then I might--? But how splendid! Would that I may introduce you to my father and brothers at the--you and Aymeric are to announce the engagement tomorrow night, then? The invitation should be arriving at Camp Dragonhead any moment now. I would not mention you are other than the Warrior of the Ocean and the prince's intended, of course, but given your permission, Count Edmont, my father, would be delighted--"

"Is he--is he always like this?" Alphinaud mouths, gesturing to Haurchefant, who's planning to court you despite your engagement, your having just met, and your potential, impending--well, you don't think you're going to die anymore. Even if you didn't believe in love at first sight, Haurchefant's absolute confidence in his affections leaves no room for doubt. "You are not going to die, I don't think." Alphinaud agrees quietly, "To his question," He nods towards the happily chattering elezen, "you won't know until the end of the third day. If he loves you, you'll live through the sunrise and get your voice back. I am assuming that Tataru doesn't kill you for getting engaged without telling her, of course. You know she intended to design your life-bond jewelry."

About that--so much has happened the last two days. You have to start somewhere, you suppose, so you begin writing again, describing to Alphinaud the landwalkers' curious fixation on fabric wrappings. According to Lucia, Ishgardians do not wear life-bond jewelry except for tiny symbolic tokens. Instead, they have such a thing as the "wedding dress" and the "engagement gown," veritable mountains of fabric--indeed, landwalkers voluntarily bind themselves into these contraptions--for the occasion.

Alphinaud takes notes, scratching them out on a stone for Tataru to make you this "engagement gown." Haurchefant offers suggestions, describing Ishgardian clothing conventions where you and Alphinaud express confusion. He persuades you to don armor over your dress, fitting your title as the Warrior of the Ocean, and practical given your intent to pursue the attacker after the ceremony.

Afterwards, Alphinaud translates for Haurchefant, so he can help you explain the situation to Aymeric and Lucia. At Camp Dragonhead, you sit on his desk as he composes the letter, reading each sentence aloud so you can nod in approval. The ink is drying on the parchment when the north-west squad returns and the infantry leader points at you from across the room, yelling to everyone in elezen-earshot that you killed a wyvern with your bare hands. 

Haurchefant has you stay to demonstrate barehanded fighting for his recruits. For the sake of the day's paperwork, Corentiaux steers his lord away despite Haurchefant insisting he must unavoidably--ahem, observe your training. To replicate your teachings for future trainees, of course. That is the singular reason. No relation, most definitely, with your--admittedly gorgeous--physique. 

By the time you finish with the trainees, Haurchefant has escaped Corentiaux to insist that you stay for dinner. Dinner becomes dinner and a walk, to aid digestion. After your walk, the wyvern has finished cooking, and one of the chocobo riders takes you to try the roast. Medguistl packs you a to-go container. The infantry captain gives you a wyvern tooth as a souvenir. Haurchefant gives you the sealed letter for Aymeric, promising to meet you in Foundation tomorrow. The sun has set by the time you start back for Ishgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> between everything happening it's important to slow down and have a moment of peace before we go into the climax, i also wanted a portrait of how WoL would fit into the landwalker's world, outside of interacting with the main NPC's
> 
> nxt: aymeric returns from parley with the dravanians, reads haurchefant's letter, figures out your relationship with the camp dragonhead commander. has feels he is not ready to deal with. aymeric is tired.


	12. bastard sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aymeric is tired and c r u s h i n g

When you return to the castle, you find Aymeric nodding off in the southern foyer. His coat must have been put away--he's only wearing a thin blue shirt. You remember that elezen get cold, unlike your kind, and walk to the next room over. In the salon, you find a fluffy blanket that you throw around the prince, bending down to adjust the fabric so it's wrapped around him without covering his face. At the gentle weight over his shoulders, Aymeric blinks sleepily. His eyes focus to find your face, as close as you had been the night you met. The reflection in your eyes now comes from warm candlelight instead of pale moonlight. Still, he remembers the pressure of your lips against his, your breaths pushing air back into his straining lungs. He inhales on reflex. You still smell like the sea: salty, sharp, and lightly sweet beneath the first, alien scent.

You watch Aymeric's chest rise and fall, reach out, and think better of it. You remember how Haurchefant responded when you stood chest to chest. There are probably places on the elezen's body you shouldn't touch. Your life-bond is in name only, so you retract your hands.

Aymeric tells himself he should not feel so disappointed. His gaze sweeps from your hand up your arm, to the oddly familiar maroon fabric. He could swear it wasn't what you wore when you left the castle this morning. It fit too well, and--Aymeric spots the unicorn over your breast. He puts together the pieces: the Fortemps crest, your plan to search the city for your savior, your drawing of the elezen with the hooked nose.

"Lord Haurchefant--He is the man who saved you."

You nod, and repeat the Camp Dragonhead commander's name silently. Aymeric watches you mouth 'Haurchefant," and it's late. He's tired. In the day, he would have tucked these thoughts away in the dark corners of his mind, never to see the light. In the night, they rise unbidden, and he wonders if you still taste like you had in the ocean. He wants your mouth around his name. He wants to feel you say Aymeric, your lips pressed against his--

Aymeric's hands fist in the blanket. He draws it tighter around himself. He can still feel the warmth of your arms lingering in the fabric--no, no, no. He shoves those thoughts away, straightening from his slouched position.

"He is a good man. You are--fortunate--to have been found by him." Aymeric says, mentally shushing the voice that whispers--he wishes he had been the one to find you.

You swing Lucia's pack to your front. The castle is quiet, the night steward attending to other matters because Aymeric had insisted on waiting for you himself. The rustle of paper fills the foyer as you hand Aymeric the letter Haurchefant wrote on your behalf. The prince recognizes the Camp Dragonhead stationary. He had meant to show you to your rooms, but he feels the thickness of the envelope and takes you to his study instead.

Aymeric leads you by the hand and does not think about how thoughtlessly he reached for you, how tightly he holds on to you, how neatly your fingers fit between his. Once you arrive, he lets go reluctantly, putting water on the stove and retrieving his spectacles. He gestures you to the armchairs by his desk, lighting the braziers and the lamps. You curl up against the cushions, watching the firelight play over his spectacles as he reads.

Haurchefant saved you, and you became a landwalker to save him in turn. Aymeric tamps down the envy rearing its ugly head as he reads. From being saved by him to trying to save him, the connection between you and Haurchefant feels strong, even fated. Meanwhile, Aymeric owes you his life, but what has he offered in return? A false engagement, one more errand for you to discover Haurchefant's assailant.

Aymeric closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He tells himself these doubts are not true--he has offered you a place on land, his assistance, and his friendship. He would offer you his affection--but Haurchefant has covered that, hasn't he? The elezen lord's enthusiasm is practically visible in his handwriting, the print becoming cursive with his urgence, a word crossed out every fifth line or so in his haste to write for you. Since they were kids, Haurchefant has been larger than life with his open affection for everything, from his chocobos to his knights to you. Unlike him, Aymeric can't--No. Aymeric regains rein over his thoughts. It's late, but you have bigger problems to deal with than his jealousy.

When he reads how you saved Haurchefant, Aymeric reaches for your arm. You let him lift your sleeve. There's no scarring, but you flinch when he runs his fingers over the skin, his expression both contrite and worried. He would like to bring your arms to his lips, to kiss the healed wounds, but he isn't Haurchefant. He does not want to suggest what you may not want, what he may not be able to give, so instead, he takes your smaller hands in his own and waits for you to meet his eyes.

"Never again. Promise me." He whispers, the hurt clear in his gaze. You're struck by the familiarity between the prince and the lord. Despite Haurchefant's strong features and Aymeric's delicate beauty, Haurchefant's enthusiasm and Aymeric's quiet assurance, Haurchefant's reedy voice and Aymeric's deep tones, their words are much the same.

You nod, and Aymeric's shoulders seem to slump with relief. He continues with the rest of the letter. He's familiar with how you plan to capture Haurchefant's assailant tomorrow. The curse is new to him. On the fourth day, he reads, you will die unless a landwalker loves you--

"You will not die." Aymeric asserts. "I will not permit it."

Beneath the softness of his voice, there is steel, enough for you to glimpse how the prince with the shiny pauldrons, the kind smile, and the gentle hands is also one of the most powerful men in Ishgard. Aymeric promises you will live with all the weight of his responsibilities. You trust his words as the air in your lungs.

He continues to the next lines, where Haurchefant declares--but of course, his heart is yours, has been yours, since the moment he laid eyes on--Aymeric swallows, wondering how exactly Haurchefant had or had not translated this letter for you. He recovers his speech as his blush fades.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to presume." He says of his declaration a moment ago, "I--"

He does not want to burden you with his affections, not when you are already--but are you? In the letter, Haurchefant is adamant about his feelings for you. But--Aymeric scans the beginning of the letter again, and he's still unsure what you feel, if you return Haurchefant's affections, or if you are--No. Aymeric will not let his weariness drive him to distraction. The important question isn't whether his crush is returned. The question is whether you're going to live. The answer is yes. Then, whether you are in love with Haurchefant or otherwise, you must plan your entire future. Aymeric finishes reading the letter.

"I have been speaking with Lucia," The prince murmurs, replacing the parchment in a sealed envelope and setting it on fire in a candleflame, "After all this"--he waves at the letter, at the castle, at both of you, "If you wished to stay, I am sure Lord Haurchefant would be more than happy to hav--to host you. I would also--you could also stay with me, if you wished." He looked away, his expression almost bashful.

Truthfully, you hadn't thought as far as living on land. You'd assumed Alphinaud and Urianger would figure how to break the curse, and you'd be a mer again. Now that Aymeric proposes the question, you wonder--if you stayed, who would it be with? How would that work, considering you'd been in a fake engagement with the prince?

You point at Aymeric, make a fist in front of your chest and pulse it to the beat of your heart, and then raise your arms, palms facing the sky, in a question.

"I, heart..." Aymeric trails off, "I love..." He coughs, turning red, "Who I love? As in, who do I love?"

You nod. He covers his mouth, laughs softly, and--no, that's not the light, his ears are turning pink again.

"I do not--I am not--" Aymeric sighs, "Ishgard is largely ruled by--besides the royal family--four High Houses, including House Fortemps," He points at the unicorn on your breast, "which claims Lord Haurchefant as a son. As the King's heir, I would be--unwise--to upset the balance of power by allying with any house through marriage. Hence, any partner I consider must needs hail from--" Outside. Like you. He catches himself. The kettle whistles. Aymeric makes tea.

He should not have sweets so late in the night. But he is tired, so he tells himself he can permit a bit of sweetness, just a little--he looks towards you in his peripheral vision--and just this once. When he pours, the air smells of birch syrup and liquid flowers. You take the cup and saucer with an expression of wonder, glancing at him over the brim before you stick out your tongue to lick the tiniest bit of liquid. You tilt your head, contemplating the taste.

As he sips, Aymeric watches you take larger drinks, mimicking him. He memorizes the scene, the backdrop of the evening sprinkled with a dozen sparkling silver stars, you, sunk into his chair, your skin tone soft against the endless blue upholstery. He paints the picture in his mind, tucking the memory away to keep forever.

You learn forward, out of the armchair, and flap your arms like wings before reaching out your hands, making a growling face--

"Dragon." Aymeric guesses immediately.

You spread your arms, making the questioning gesture again. Aymeric takes a bit longer to put two gestures together.

"How went our parley with the Dravanians?"

You nod.

"Thank you for asking, my friend. I daresay the negotiations went well. The Dravanians were amenable to moving forward in collaboration with each other, despite our history. I only hope our side is amenable to the same, but given how he hid the true history between the dragons and the elezen, I suspect my father will not be so--"

You frown because from what you've overheard in Ishgard, King De Borel has largely stepped back from politics in his old age. He has been nothing but supportive, hasn't he? Aymeric covers his mouth, having only now realized the slip of his tongue.

"My father, as in His Holiness, the archbishop. Are you familiar with the concept of illegitimate sons?"

The echo translates 'illegitimate' as 'born out of life-bond,' but Aymeric says the word as if it's much less innocuous.

"I am the illegitimate son of the archbishop. The King and the Queen adopted me because the queen was barren. I would--I would ask your silence--figuratively, of course--as children born out of wedlock are frowned upon in Ishgardian society."

You don't understand--why would anyone be held accountable for the circumstances of their birth, when they didn't even exist at the time?

"I am aware my birth parents' choices are not my fault." Aymeric assures at your expression, "But my awareness does not change how society treats even the rumor of illegitimacy, how one must wonder if one would be treated differently, were I--" Aymeric cuts himself off, drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his hand. He holds on tightly even as his shoulders relax, ilm by ilm. "Forgive me. Far be it from me to saddle you with my worries when you have enough of your own. Have I answered your question, about the Dravanians, or anything else?"

You set the cup and saucer aside. Then, you reach for Aymeric. You have no firsthand knowledge of his responsibilities, his family, or his world's prejudices, but you can see how these wear on him, and you would offer comfort through touch. You try to hold Aymeric as Haurchefant had held you. Your pose feels more awkward--Aymeric is in a chair and not on the ground, so you're basically seated on his lap with your arms around his shoulders. Aymeric startles at first, bracing as if for attack.

"Oh." The prince murmurs, his smooth voice cracking a little. You remember how Haurchefant had rubbed soothing circles into your back and try to do the same, though you can't reach as far. Aymeric sighs, "Thank you, my dear."

You nod against Aymeric's chest. Underneath your touch, the prince relaxes little by little, until he's leaning into you, boneless as the tension of the day drains from his muscles. You are so warm. He hums, soft with contentment. He could fall asleep like this. He finds his eyelids slipping, his head falling against yours--he slips so easily around you, because you feel good, you feel safe, and it's so hard to pull himself from you, to say

"Let us to bed." Aymeric somehow summons the energy to tilt his head, gesturing towards his bed as an example, "We can worry another day."

You follow the direction of his gaze, rise, and walk confidently into his bedroom. Aymeric jerks to a standing position, suddenly awake, his heartrate racing until he remembers--you had slept on a different bed every time you slept on land, from the patient's cot in the infirmary, to the bed in the palace guestroom. So you might assume that when he gestured to his bed, Aymeric had not meant the general "we should go to bed," but "you should come to my bed," which--he is, ah, not unwilling, but you aren't truly engaged, and he would not start rumors--

Aymeric thinks about retreating to a guest bedroom, or sleeping in his study. He reminds himself that he's the prince of a city-state who just led successful peace-talks with their century-old enemy. He straightens and follows you into his room.

"Pardon me, my friend. I would escort you to your room. Please." He says, his smooth voice a little strained at the end.

You drift back to his side, peering curiously at the portraits and keepsakes around his room, and then at Aymeric, who stares at your hand like he wants to hold it. You reach out for him. He smiles gratefully at you, the quietly joyful expression smoothing out some of the shadows under his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nxt: day 3


	13. the third day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gueeeees wuuuuuut?
> 
> aiiiiiiim not deaaaaaad

The morning of the last day, Aymeric finds you in your room. You are sitting on the window seat, the sunlight a golden halo behind your head. Your loose hair splays across your back, your bare feet swing off the ground, and the prince stops to stare at you.

Aymeric has seen his share of beautiful women. He's fought beside warriors hardened by battle, their armor polished, their movements elegant with lethal grace. He's parleyed with leaders wielding words sharp as weapons, their power suggested and enhanced by symbolic dress. He's been courted by noble ladies enrobed in rich furs, heavy jewelry, water-smooth silk, and imported parfums. He knows beauty can be refined through practice, enhanced with artistry, or purchased with wealth. Yours is not that sort of beauty. Though you've shed your sharp teeth, hard scales, and long claws, the mer remains under your skin, an unmistakable wildness about you. No matter how Lucia dresses you like any Eorzean adventurer or Ishgardian noblewoman, you will always be inimitable to him.

You sniff the air, notice his presence, and pad over in your bare feet. Aymeric blinks slowly. You touch his arm, and his eyes refocus on the spot where your fingers brush his skin.

When he glances at you, you pout, point to your expression, point to him, and tilt your head with a questioning expression.

"Have you considered going into politics?" Aymeric asks. You frown harder. "I ask because you are frightfully skilled at reading people, my dear. You're right--I'm--upset. The Archbishop, my father, indicated he will be unable to attend the banquet. He sent his congratulations."

Aymeric takes an invitation out from the pocket of his coat, over his heart. Someone has written over the embossed invite. You can't read the script, but the note is so short it can't say much. The prince stares at the handful of words with longing so deep you can feel the hurt.

"You are aware of the long battle between Ishgard and Dravania. Yesterday, the Dravanians presented me with an alternative history of our relationship with dragons. I wanted to meet the Archbishop, to understand why he has hidden the truth from our people. The Vault refused me entrance. The Archbishop and his knights twelve have already been sequestered for a fortnight on church business, and my father does not expect to extract himself 'til the morrow."

You count the absences. One Archbishop, twelve knights. Thirteen people, and they're all in one place. Hopefully Aymeric's birth father's people aren't trying to kill Haurchefant. But if they are, you know where to find them, and you can identify them by process of elimination, assuming no one else misses the banquet.

You'd like to reassure Aymeric--his birth dad may not be there, but everyone else will be. Even if the Archbishop doesn't care for his illegitimate son, you all care. Lucia cares. She's not a woman who'd ever say so, but you can see it from the way she protects his hours and prepares for his every need. Haurchefant cares, from his effusive praise of the prince. Spiky cares, though he'd never admit it. And you--well, you're engaged to him, aren't you?

You take Aymeric's hand and smile encouragingly at him. He takes a deep breath, smiling back. He pulls your hand, leading you to another section of the palace.

"Come, my dear. You deserve better from me than a list of worries." You and Aymeric enter a ball room, the polished wooden floor smooth and pleasantly cool against the soles of your new, human feet, "Lucia has tasked me with teaching my beloved fiancée to dance."

..........

Contrary to your expectations, Aymeric isn't a brilliant dancer. He jokingly swears you to secrecy before you start--No one must know that he has barely practiced since he was knighted, nearly a decade ago. At social functions these days, he's nearly always engaged with nobility, if not leading the ceremony. After making an appearance and doing the necessary socializing, he makes his excuses before returning to work. His footwork has gotten terribly rusty, he suspects.

Aymeric may be out of practice, but he's graceful by nature. He only steps on your foot once before he recovers the muscle memory of dancing from his youth. Then, it's only a matter of adapting the movement to his taller adult figure.

By the time the dance instructor arrives, the prince is confidently leading you through the steps. The pace he learned at feels almost unfair. But with his perpetual modesty, Aymeric reminds you he has two decades of practice on you.

You have a day, the instructor replies, stepping in to correct your posture. You dance with the brunet elezen until lunch, setting your mind to the steps like learning a new battle move. First, you observe. Then, you do it yourself. After the instructor is satisfied with your form, you repeat until the steps become unconscious, more muscle memory than thoughtful movement. By lunch, you've learned all the basic steps, and then some. After lunch, you string them together, learning to move to music, to work with space, to accomodate a partner.

Aymeric returns later in the afternoon, Lucia following him. As the last golden light of the day beams through the ballroom window, she and the instructor watch you and Aymeric rehearse your first dance. By now, Aymeric’s hand at your waist feels familiar, your movements natural, because he knows you and you trust him. You move together though the song, gliding across the ballroom.

You keep expecting your instructor to jump in and make corrections. But he doesn't. The song ends, and the shorter elezen nods to himself with a self-satisfied expression.

"Nicely done." He said, "You've surpassed my expectations for the nobility. You are both practiced individually, of course, evidently--"

You glance at Aymeric, who is rewarding your instructor with his usual, dazzling smile. As the instructor rambles on, Aymeric winks at you, raising his index finger to his lips. His arm remains around your waist, his expression concealing your shared secret.

"You would never pass for a professional like myself, but your love for each other will be evident." The instructor declared, "My work here is done."

The instructor throws his jacket over his shoulder and marches out from the ballroom, leaving Lucia to stir slowly from her spot leaning against the wall. Aymeric sighs.

"Pray reassure Lucia," Aymeric leans down, brushing a strand of hair away from your ear as he whispers to you, "She has been worrying herself sick and working herself to exhaustion planning the event."

The knight shakes herself awake, rubbing her eyes. She immediately marches to your side, nodding at Aymeric before taking your arm.

"Much is at stake today." Lucia explains, "Ishgard has not welcomed outsiders for centuries. As His Highness parleys with the Dravanians, your debut will not only set a precedent for how we interact with them, but also for how Ishgard perceives the outside world. You must be respectful without being submissive, powerful without seeming threatening. Do you understand the weight of this evening's proceedings?"

You nod, raising yourself to your full height, which is admittedly not very tall, now that you're human. You miss your tail.

"Good." Lucia pauses, and somehow manages to look even more exhausted than she had been before. "I understand that your companions intend to dress you for the banquet." Her expression expresses her doubt with more volume than any sound, "We've still an appointment with my seamstress for safety's sake, but we'll first escort you to shore for your gown."

..........

You arrive at the seashore during sunset. A handful of Camp Dragonhead soldiers have been stationed at the pier to protect surfacing mer from poachers. They disperse at your arrival, giving you privacy.

You stomp on the pier again, as you had yesterday. Lucia announces the prince's and her presence as Haurchefant instructed. Moments later, Tataru's head pops out of the water. The tiny mer beckons you to her. You point at the ocean. She nods. Before Lucia can protest, you dive off the pier.

The water is refreshingly chilly, cooler than you remember now that you are no longer mer. You can still see, but your sight is no longer as clear since this body can't use sonar. Instead, you trust yourself to the familiar hands of the scions, Tataru and Alisaie tugging off your cloth bindings. At Tataru's command, Alisaie narrates what she's doing while Tataru dresses you. The gown feels less like the restricting fabric of the landwalkers, more like the familiar, smooth currents of your cove. When you look at your body, you can't see anything except dark water.

"We're ready!" Tataru shouts into the ocean, which darkens as the sun falls. You squint in the direction her voice went, trying to make out her audience. You spot the familiar iridescent glint first. Then, Alphinaud emerges from the depths with your armor, handcrafted from shed scales, the tail portion detached so it will fit your human body. He helps you fasten the breastplate around your torso while Tataru presses something into your hand.

"You said he wore an earring," Tataru said. You turned the jewel--no, not a jewel, but your scale, carved and assembled into a diamond shape, like Aymeric's earring but slightly smaller. "Even if the life-bond's pretend, you need jewelry to match, right?"

Once you are dressed, Alphinaud and Alisaie help you turn. Tataru adjusts your dress to her satisfaction, while Alphinaud describes Urianger's progress with unraveling the curse. The scions should have everything ready to restore your mer form. You just have to return--by midnight if possible, before tomorrow's sunrise at the latest. Definitely not after sunrise, they've discovered some troubling texts that suggest the curse will turn you to seafoam. Can you imagine? Seafoam!

"Sunrise. You got it?" Alisaie interrupts Alphinaud. You nod. Alphinaud begins to continue, but Alisaie covers his mouth while Tataru pushes you towards shore.

"C'mon!" She says, "Clock's a-ticking, let's get going!"

..........

Lucia is pacing the pier. Perhaps the motion is what makes him anxious, Aymeric reasons. This is not a wedding or even a true engagement ceremony. You will not be his bride. He shouldn’t feel like an anxious husband-to-be. But telling himself that doesn't calm the fluttering in his stomach, and he has to stop himself from fidgeting as he watches the calm ocean.

Aymeric and Lucia have returned to shore, to give you and the Scions privacy since you need to change. The prince only turns at the sound of a splash. He blinks quickly, letting his eyes adjust to the sunset glinting across the water, and that is how he sees you rising from the ocean.

The splash came from you tossing your hair back. The flying water drops catch the last glint of daylight. You smooth the remaining droplets out of your face and walk onto shore in iridescent armor. Beneath the glimmering plate, hints of your gown peek out, white lace that resolves into patterned ice as you walk closer.

At your waist, the gown flares, ice melting into water. The deep blue material on your hips lightens along your legs, changing from nearly solid, fabric-like panels into flowing waves around your feet. When you take a step, the blue material becomes swirling whitewater.

The moment you set foot on shore, the sun dips below the horizon. In the darkness, your skirts erupt with light. The blue-green phosphorescent plankton borrowed from the walls of Urianger's grotto glitter with your every movement.

In the evening of the third day, The Warrior of the Ocean emerges, dressed for battle in the colors of her homeland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: a quiet moment before the ball, between you, Aymeric, and Haurchefant
> 
> Edit: Actually next is a brief interlude before we get to Aymeric + Haurchefant


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude before we get to the main ball.
> 
> Many thanks to my new beta readers quadrantvariation and Radiation_Free_Wizard. Thank you! Clap clap clap

"Shoes." Lucia comments flatly. 

If Aymeric heard her, he doesn't respond. You're twirling to show off the motion-activated lighting of Tataru's design, and he's staring at your delighted expression like he's been starstruck. Lucia sighs--men in love are fools--and waits for the prince to return to earth.

"Shoes," She repeats after a pause. At her voice, Aymeric blinks. He looks down at the beach and your bare feet.

"Right." The prince nods, "Shoes. Yes. Pardon me." He coughs into his fist, ears drooping in embarrassment. You step closer, curious about his conversation with Lucia.

"Shoes," Lucia tells you.

Your slippers are sleeping with the fishes like the rest of your fabric wrappings. Whoops. You cover your mouth and look back at the ocean with a guilty expression. The Scions were probably gone by now. Maybe you could dive for the slippers? You can't breathe underwater or see the seafloor in the dark anymore, but you can still swim.

"Would you mind?" Aymeric asks. His hand has come to rest on the small of your back, as if you were dancing. He's standing just as close, maybe closer than you'd been during practice. 

The dance instructor's directions seem to have removed an invisible barrier between you. Before, Aymeric always held himself at arms length, thinking twice every time he crossed the distance to twine your fingers or hold your hand. The prince will never be as tactile as Haurchefant, but now he makes his presence and his closeness known with constant, light, careful touches, a brush of his arm against yours, a gentle pressure from his arm around your waist. 

You remind yourself that the casual contact is probably good for convincing people that you're a couple, since the ball's tonight. You pointedly ignore the part of you that hopes Aymeric's seemingly unconscious affection is just that, more unconscious and less an act--Wait, he’d been asking something. Would you mind? Mind what?

"Forgive me, my dear," Aymeric murmurs. He bends, one arm at your back, the other at the curve of your knees. You're lifted into his arms, cradled against the expanse of his chest. Tataru's gown glows brilliantly at the movement.

"I recall you carried me back to the ship. I hope you don't mind that I return the favor--the road back to Ishgard can be rough?" Aymeric asks hopefully. Across from him, Lucia shakes her head, lips pursed, because she knows, and she's pretty sure Aymeric also knows the road back to Ishgard isn't that rough. It's just pavement, and snow, and sand, and snow, and sand on pavement, and more snow. But you obligingly wrap an arm around Aymeric's shoulders, making the prince smile like he's carrying the world in his arms instead of on his shoulders for the first time in ages, and Lucia shakes her head, leading the way. 

Men in love were fools. Mer in love were fools. She'll have to be the only sane woman, but isn't she always?

..........

"What are you picking up?" One of the seamstress's assistants--not her favorite assistant, Lucia notes--asks her.

"Shoes." The Temple Knight answers. As she spoke, Aymeric appeared with you. The assistant waved the prince and his fiancée into the shop, where Aymeric gently set you on the tiled floor. A dozen seamstresses and their assistants turned, their gazes centered on the two of you.

Lucia's seamstress prides herself in work-life balance, sending all her employees home before dinner, and going home herself, by sunset at the latest. The last time her workshop was this full this late, it had been the Archbishop's coronation. The day of the coronation, all her girls slept through the ceremony because they'd spent the previous night weaving lace for five-dozen mantilla orders the church had nearly forgotten to place.

No one needed to do work this time. But throughout the day, cloth got stitched wrong, buttons misplaced, corsets de-boned, so her employees had to stay. And if they happened to meet the prince--well, everyone wanted to know if he was just as lovely up close. Some were also curious about the princess-to-be, a rumored mer.

When Lucia arrived with you and Aymeric in the blue evening, the seamstress's workshop fawned, but not over you or Aymeric. Sure, the prince was handsome and the princess, charming. But the dress. _ That dress. _

"How?" Madame Lafolie demanded for the third time in as many moments. She examined the gown at your waist, where the stiff structure of an icy corset melted into a cascade of liquid blue skirts. "How? Who made this? Where do I meet them? When?"

Between your frenzied sketching to answer every question and Aymeric interpreting, Lucia stood in a corner checking the time to ensure you remained on schedule. You were two bells ahead--she'd budgeted for having to tailor you a full gown in case the mer design didn't work out. Good.

"What are you picking up?" Another assistant asked Lucia quietly, apart from the crowd. Lucia begins to frown, but her brow smooths as she sees the woman. This time, it’s her favorite assistant.

"Shoes." Lucia says for the fifth time. The assistant nods and disappears. Within moments, the whispers move through the workshop, passed from seamstress to assistant to tanner as the women converge on you and Aymeric. 

"Shoes." "Shoes?" "Yes, shoes." "What shoes?" "Those shoes." "Whose shoes?" "Her shoes." "Oh, shoes!"

The group stops, silent and motionless as they contemplate how to find shoes for your dress. The seamstresses begin to move slowly. Several assistants come with tape and rulers for your measurements. Two shoemakers present their best-fit wares. Three tanners make sketches. A brief argument erupts over the modification proposal. The group selects a design, assigns tasks, and disperses to assemble the shoes. A half-bell later, the quiet assistant emerges from the back of the workshop with kitten heels the precise shade of your scale armor.

"Shoes." She says simply, and Lucia smiles.


End file.
